She gives him five minutes to agree. The napkin says “call Abel.” The only problem: making murder look like an accident is harder than it sounds.
She’s right, kill him.
“She’s right—kill him.” Words I should have let roll into the storm drain. I didn’t.
I was at Jose’s Tacoria with my buddy Pedro. Jose leaned over, arm heavy on my shoulders. “You can’t go to the police, Juan. First thing they’ll ask is if you’re a citizen. When you say no, they’ll want the green card we don’t have.”
I sighed. “I’ve been dodging ICE for three months. I got more enemies in Tijuana than I got here.”
“That’s what I’m saying. You go to the cops, they’ll ship you back. Rocky gets Miranda on a silver platter.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Pedro’s eyes hardened. “You can’t reason with Rocky. His brain don’t work that way. Every time he screws up, his daddy Tito—Las Maspachas’ boss—bails him out. You got to put him down like the dirty dog he is. Tito will get over it.”
I laughed nervously. Rocky Sanchez, eighteen, baby-faced, obsessed with my girlfriend Miranda—who’s twenty-eight and knows how to throw shade like a champ. At first we laughed at Rocky’s crush. Until he started showing up at her work, loud, crude, and getting her blamed by her boss.
Pedro scribbled on a salsa-stained napkin, slid it across.
“What’s this?”
“Abel Torres. Guns on demand. Mention my name for fifty percent off.”
“You’re serious?”
“As a bullet. Make it look like Chico Malos took Rocky out. Let the gangs kill each other. The neighborhood’ll be safer.”
He sounded crazy. The worst part? He was making sense.
⸻
It started the night before. Miranda slammed the bathroom door and refused to come out.
“Mira, you okay?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Did I say something in my sleep?”
“I’m gonna kill that pendejo.”
“Who?”
“Rocky. Walking dead. Don’t talk me out of it.”
I leaned against the door. “He’s an idiot, but harmless.”
“I’m buying a gun and giving him a third eye between the other two. You in or out?”
“Will you come out and talk?”
“You got cinco minutos.”
When she finally emerged, her eyes flashed like warning lights, lips tight as the jaws of life.
“What did he do, Mira?”
“He came to the store, bragging to his friends what he’d do with me in bed. Loud. My boss blamed me and threatened to fire me. Next time, I’m out.”
“You want me to rough him up? Maybe a little assault charge?”
“I want him dead. Are you scared?”
“I’m smart. This is the death penalty state, Mira. You don’t get parole from lethal injection.”
“Make it look like a suicide. Tito too.”
I rubbed my face. “Mira, that’s double murder. Let me think.”
“You’ve got forty-eight hours. If Rocky’s breathing after that, your clothes are out the window.”
⸻
That’s what pushed me to Pedro. He wasn’t help; he was fuel on the fire. I left the tacoria and wandered to the river. Thought about throwing myself in—except I can’t swim. Crashed at my mom’s instead.
Morning, she shook me awake. “Mira called four times.”
My gut clenched. I pictured her in jail, maybe worse.
“She’s home,” Mom said.
I powered on my phone. Ten missed calls. Five messages. I didn’t want to hear them. Just hit speed dial.
Mira picked up on the first ring.
“How’d you do it?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Get Los Chico Malos to take out Rocky and Tito.”
Her voice purred like she already knew the answer.
